One Last Look

The flowers that a friend brings twice a week
Or even oftener accumulate
In plastic cups beside me on the table.
Not only I forget to throw them out,
But also I've a curiosity,
Fading a bit myself, to watch them fade.
They do it with much delicacy and style.

Shrinking into themselves, they keep their cool
And colors many days, their drying and
Diminishing would be imperceptible
But for the instance of the followers
Arranged beside them in the order of
Their severance and exile from the earth;
In death already though they know it not.

At last the petals shrivel, fold and fall,
The colors grow pastel and pale, the stems
Go brittle and the green starts turning brown;
The fireworks are over, and live sinks
Down in or else evaporate, but where?
From time to time I throw a cup away.
Wondering where lives go when they go out.


Flower Arrangements, by Howard Nemerov


A co-worker brought these flowers in to brighten up the room, which they did for many days. This morning, before anyone else arrived, I took a photo before throwing the last bunch out. Seeing them lying there in the empty trash can made me feel guilty, like I should be taking them home and letting them rot away in the field instead.